


Need to Know Basis

by geniustakethewheel



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Action & Romance, Aftermath of Torture, BAMF Q, Betrayal, Blow Jobs, Conspiracy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Flirting, Hacking, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt Q, Hurt/Comfort, I can edit the tags later right?, Light Bondage, M/M, Manipulation, Mystery, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective James Bond, Q can take care of himself thank you very much, Sarcasm, Seduction, Terrorism, Torture, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2404622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geniustakethewheel/pseuds/geniustakethewheel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond stared. He was 007, one of the most well-established, well-respected agents in M16 history. Almost nothing was above his clearance level. </p><p>Or, the one where Q (who isn't Q yet) is Bond's latest target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Rest for the Weary

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic ever. The number of new 00q fics out there has been dwindling with alarming rapidity, so I tried to help. Constructive criticism welcome.
> 
> Edit 5/20/17: Finally going to try to finish this. Editing as I go.

It was 1400. The MI6 gym facilities were nearly deserted, as they usually in the middle of the afternoon. None of the office chair lackeys were cluttering up the space, the field agents were taking advantage of the daylight hours to avoid the more dangerous London night scene, and the double-ohs—well. Most of them liked to sleep in.

Today, there was only one figure in the training room, detachedly honing his form on a punching bag. Fluorescent lights and the rhythmic thud of fist on industrial grade rubber filled the space, until a voice rang out in the solemn stillness of the room.

“Mr. Bond?”

007 paused, bringing himself back to the surface, then turned to face the speaker. A man, early twenties, tweed suit and a red-bordered name tag reading “Jason” in blocky letters. Management intern.  
Bond resigned himself to cutting his afternoon ritual short. He shook out his hands, stiff with exertion, and plucked his towel from a nearby bench, wiping his forehead. His eyes stayed locked on the intern, who twitched a bit with the widening silence. Bond savored the man’s discomfort for a bit longer before taking pity.

“That’s me.”

The intern nodded, a bit quickly. “You’re required for a mission briefing in M2’s office.”

Bond quirked an eyebrow. His last mission had ended late last night, or rather, early this morning. A turnover so short was abnormal, even for a double-oh, and he was still in training the last time M hadn’t personally briefed him. Curiosity peaked, Bond brushed past the wide-eyed intern, ignoring his attempts to lead the way.

“Details?”

“I’m just the messenger, sir, I don’t know any more than you do.”

Sir. Huh.

Bond strode down the sterile hallways towards the M branch, losing the intern somewhere along the way. The door to M2’s office was closed, as always. Bond didn’t bother to knock, opening the door and stepping into the expensively furnished space, all mahogany and velvet. M2 was peering at his paperwork, attempting to seem impossibly busy with unspeakably important affairs. Bond clasped his hands behind his back and looked on, unimpressed.

“Two, you called?”

M2 glanced up, feigning surprise. Bond glanced skyward.

“Ah, 007. Yes. Your next mission is ready to launch.

“So I was told.”

M2 smiled thinly, cutting the pretense. “The target is a Caucasian male, early to mid-twenties, around 5’10, 60 kilos. He has dark wavy hair, ear-length, thick black-rimmed glasses. Intel says he’s likely to make an appearance in Shoreditch this evening. Your handler has a picture and will be watching the CCTV feeds; she’ll let you know who to mark.” He looked back at his paperwork.

Bond waited for the interesting information, before realizing M2 was done speaking. He cleared his throat.

“If I may, why is this target so significant that you’re sending out a double-oh after less than twelve hours of R&R?”

M2 glanced coolly at Bond for a moment before returning to his papers. “That’s classified.”

Bond stared. Almost nothing was above his clearance level.

“There’s nothing else you can tell me?” he pressed, testing his limits.

“I’ve given you all the information you need. Q branch will equip you, then you will go check in with your handler.” A clear dismissal.

Bond narrowed his eyes, and with sharp movements, he turned to go.

 

*

 

Q branch always made Bond feel a tad prickly. There was too much to keep track of, flashing lights and wires and scurrying techs and the clatter of typing. The entire wing had a vague sense of clutter to it, no matter how organized it was. Not to mention, the denizens of Q branch were notoriously dismissive of field agents, and they held a special dislike for agent 007, who never failed to return their precious gadgets in pieces. But Bond wasn’t looking to pick any fights today, so he valiantly pretended he didn’t notice the gawking and whispers following him and made his way to Q’s office with all possible haste.

Q’s office, which was more of a workshop really, was a familiar sight to Bond. Due to the usual import of his missions, Bond was usually outfitted with equipment directly from the department head. Q himself was an older man, with silvery hair and a rather impressive mustache. He would have been able to pull off a dignified aura if not for his haphazard surroundings. Half-completed projects lay propped against walls and under work benches, and there was no discernible rhyme or reason to the placement of anything. Bond often wondered how Q was able to locate his own thoughts in the mess, but so long as his gadgets did their jobs, he wasn’t going to complain.

Q peered up at Bond over his latest blueprint as Bond entered the workshop, thick safety goggled creating a perturbing dichotomy with the carefully pressed suit Q wore. The man looked completely bewildered for a moment, before seeming to remember who Bond was.

“007! Hello, M2 mentioned that you would be heading down to my little corner of paradise.” Q giggled slightly, and Bond gritted his teeth subtly and carefully didn’t roll his eyes.

Setting down a still-flaming blow torch, Q turned in a quick half circle, muttering under his breath, before letting out a small “Aha!” and marching across the room.

“I have got just the thing for you, Mr. 007!” Q held up an overly-complicated looking contraption with a speaker and an elaborate control panel on the side. His face fell slightly as Bond failed to fall to his knees in awe, but his excitable monologue didn’t even slow down.

“This is a radio.” Bond held back a snort. So that’s what it was. “It operates like a walkie-talkie, you press this red button here to power on, and this knob is the tuner. But these switches on the side here control the really interesting functions--“

Bond allowed his vision to glaze as Q waxed poetic about the inbuilt knife, the electromagnet, the fire-starting kit, and the grappling hook that ‘doesn’t quite work properly 100% of the time, but will doubtlessly be invaluable once it does.’ Bond knew from hard experience that Q’s more ostentatious modifications weren’t exactly reliable; the fiasco with the mechanical homing pigeon had demonstrated that. As far as Bond was concerned, the radio was just a radio.

Finally, as Q was winding down, Bond got the correct frequency for his handler out of him, then collected his radio/grappling hook, sidearm, and restraining devices and went on his way.

“It was a nice chat, Mr. 007, lovely of you to stop by! We’ll have to continue at a later date,” Q called cheerily as Bond wove his way between bustling tech people in the hall. Bond smirked to himself. Not likely.

Then, a pair of raised voices claimed his attention.

“—damn well better find him, no one can get on to his bloody system yet!”

“It’s not my fault the guy didn’t show up for work today, he’s only been here a week, I barely even know him!”

“Well how the hell are we supposed to finish categorizing the intel if we can’t even get into the bloody network?”

“Look, blame Alex, not me, he’s the one who decided to reconfigure all the sorting protocol--”

The heavy steel sliding doors to the wing slid shut behind Bond, cutting off the rest of the argument, and it passed out of Bond’s mind.

 

*

 

The communications center was a breath of fresh air. Neat lines of simple monochrome cubicles formed orderly aisles to walk down, and the walls were punctuated with doors at regular intervals, leading to private offices. It was a complete 180 from Q branch. Administration was always making noise about merging the two divisions. On the surface, it was a logical step; gathering and dispersing information seemed to go hand in hand with organizing and protecting it. But Bond didn’t think it would ever work, or at least not with the current leadership. One of the sectors would inevitably rip the other into pieces.

As was customary, the first stop Bond made was Moneypenny’s office. The door was already cracked, a clear invitation. She must have caught wind that he was heading this way. He nudged it the rest of the way open with his foot and stood in the doorway.

“Afternoon, Moneypenny, looking gorgeous as always,” Bond greeted her, leaning on the door frame. Moneypenny raised an imperial eyebrow from her chair, mouth twitching.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, agent, as I suspect you know,” she returned, leaning forward on her desk. “I hear your beauty rest got cut off at the knees then?”

Bond twisted his mouth. “Quite. And they won’t tell me why.”

Moneypenny grinned. “As if you would ever prefer being stuck at base to fieldwork.” Bond conceded the point with a shrug. “So they didn’t give you any background intel?”

“Not even a name. Just a general physical description and a possible location. A little too mysterious for me,” Bond said, not thinking twice about sharing the information. It was just Moneypenny.

Moneypenny rested her chin in her hand eyes sharp with humor. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re still in the running for mystery man of the year.”

Bond gave her a disdainful look and stalked off towards his handler’s cubicle, ignoring Moneypenny’s laughter and shutting the door noisily behind him.

As Bond approached the cubicle, his handler stared at him, slightly paler than her usual wan complexion. Bond knew he cut an imposing figure when he was irritated, but his handler was also rather unfortunately skittish. Bond had no idea why they had assigned this woman to be his connection to HQ when she could barely even stomach looking her own agent in the eye. She clearly had no real-world experience whatsoever, and her commands over the radio were unsure, more tentative suggestions than anything. Most of the time, Bond was forced to rely on his own intuition to get himself out of sticky situations, rather than the more sweeping view his handler was supposed to provide.

“Well?” Bond growled, as he arrived at the desk. The woman—Marcy-- swallowed and opened her mouth, but for an interminable moment, nothing came out. Bond stared her down, eyes narrowed.

Finally, Marcy found her voice. “I-I-I think that the, uh, our frequency should be, um, 107.3?”

Bond glanced down at his own radio. “Affirmative.”

“So, um. You. Are supposed to go to Shoreditch now. To complete your mission.”

Bond didn't try to hold back his sigh. “How am I supposed to do that when I don’t know where my target is?”

Marcy looked slightly alarmed. “Um, um, I can do that.” (“Can you?” Bond muttered under his breath.) “I can monitor the CCTV and run a facial recognition program. I’ll tell you over the radio when the, uh, mark shows up.”

Without another word, Bond turned and walked down the hall, heading for the car lot. He slipped in his radio earpiece, not that he expected to hear anything but silence for quite some time. Perhaps now he could finally get some answers.


	2. Velvet Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he walked, Bond ran over what he knew again. Swotty-looking bloke. Young, scrawny, pale, glasses, the works. Dark hair. Probably dressed unimpressively, if the stereotypes held true. What could possibly be so important about a Uni kid?

Bond had been sitting in this hole-in-the-wall dive pub for over four hours now, with no word from Marcy. He was starting to wonder rather uncharitably if she had gotten too caught up in her game of spider solitaire to keep an eye out for the target. Of course, it was always possible that the target genuinely hadn’t appeared yet, but that wasn’t nearly as fun as mentally ripping his handler a new one.

Bond’s fingers traced looping patterns in the condensation on his beer glass. He was nursing his sixth, fielding pitying looks from the bar tender. Only the saddest stood-up bastards sat in alone on a bar stool for four hours subsisting on beer, after all. But he couldn’t afford to get drunk, and he didn’t want to chance anything stronger.

It was properly night by now, just the right time for people to start pub crawling.  The bar was gradually filling up with all manner of desperate characters manifesting like ghosts from darkened alleyways. Men with obnoxious laughter and jeering voices were beginning to congregate around tables, downing shots with shocking speed. Probably not a place where it would be easy to avoid trouble. Time for Bond to go.

He slid a £20 to the bar tender, who nodded without a word, trying to look sympathetic. Bond stood, stretching subtly so as not to attract attention, and strolled casually towards the door. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them, and patted his jacket pocket out of habit, checking for his radio and his Walther. There were no second glances; he was just another bloke drinking on a weeknight. Nothing special.

Bond made it out onto the street without incident. He stalked in a random direction, face set in a stony mask of nonchalance. He was  _bored_.

“See, Miss Marcy, my dear, if you weren’t such a blathering imbecile at your job, maybe I wouldn’t be taking a walk down the street muttering to myself like a madman,” Bond mumbled, knowing the earpiece would pick it up. Not that anyone would hear, considering his idiot of a handler had been no-contact for the past geological age.

“Uh, uh, Agent 007, there has been a-a sighting. Um.”

Oh. Well. At least he was honest.

“Where?”

Marcy gave Bond an address, about a five-minute walk from his current location. He could make it in ninety seconds if he sprinted, but that might scare off the mystery man. Better not. As he walked, Bond ran over what he knew again. Swotty-looking bloke. Young, scrawny, pale, glasses, the works. Dark hair. Probably dressed unimpressively, if the stereotypes held true. What could possibly be so important about a Uni kid?

The address was a nightclub, with a surprisingly long line out the door. There was a blue façade, and the picture windows were strung with fairy lights. An old-fashioned sign hung over the door. The Book Club.

It didn’t look like a typical nightclub. There were no women in skin-tight sock-sized dresses, no men in suits, or even in dress shirts. Instead, everything was graphic t-shirts, flannel, skinny jeans. An odd place for a geek; maybe the target was more of a hipster. Well, at least Bond’s own leather jacket and dark-wash jeans wouldn’t stand out.

Bond got in line and pulled on his single grad student act. He was on the older end of the spectrum at 31, but he knew he could play the part well enough. Just slouch, relax his face to conceal a few lines, and cultivate a general air of poverty. Easy enough.

The attendant at the door asked for ID, and Bond handed her a card. Jay Denton, a 28 year old law graduate on recess from Sandhurst military academy. Close enough to the truth to be believable, but not close enough to link the persona back to Bond. It was his go-to identity for missions like this one.

The inside of the nightclub was spacious and airy, with light colored wood and simple silver fixtures. There was a stairway leading down into a basement, with a poster advertising an event called Velvet Tongue, presumably some musician later in the evening. Bond sat himself at a small table against the far wall, with a good view of the door and the rest of the room. He glanced around casually, trying to locate the target, but quickly gave it up. The mark had picked this spot masterfully, if it was intentional. Half the men in here fit the target’s description.

A waitress appeared with a glass of water. Bond nodded thanks, raising it to his lips.

“Any sign, Marcy?” he murmured behind the cover of his glass.

“Yes, um. Yes.”

Bond waited. Marcy was silent. “And?”

“The mark is in- in the basement, 007. But y-y-you should know…”

Oh shit. Was something going wrong already? “Know what?”

“Something odd is going on in that basement,” Marcy rushed. She sounded almost… embarrassed?

That was enough for Bond go on. He stood from his table, taking his water with him as a blunt weapon if nothing else, and sauntered to the stairway. Brushing his hand against his gun, hidden in an inner pocket, Bond stepped lightly down the stairs, keeping to the sides to prevent squeaking. He glanced around to ensure no one was watching, then crouched down to see what was going on in the floor below.

There was another room, with tables scattered throughout, all packed with people. The lighting was even darker here, and there was no musician to be found, or indeed music of any kind. What there was instead was an average-looking man on a small stage, holding a microphone, and wearing nothing but lacy black boxer briefs.

Bond stared. Then he smirked. Another possibly-brilliant maneuver. Who would notice yet another twenty-something when there was a naked man on a stage to notice instead?

“So where is he?” Bond asked Marcy, still unable to tear his eyes away from the spectacle. The naked man was making a joke about some anti-masturbation website. Probably not quite a kink club then.

“Um. Um.” Bond could practically see Marcy desperately trying to look anywhere but the main attraction. While she busied herself with helpless stuttering, Bond scanned the room, trying to find the target himself. There- no, his hair isn’t wavy. That one maybe? No. Too short. Maybe by the wall over on the right—

“The target, um, is seated at the table in the back corner. He’s alone.”

Perfect. With calculated nonchalance, Bond rose from his position and continued down the stairs, pausing politely as the naked man wrapped up his little comedic act and cleared the stage for the next performer. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the mark, and had to stop himself from looking again.

The target… was not exactly scrawny. A better word would be lithe. His hair was dark and wavy, yes, as well as artfully styled, a strand brushing over his forehead, nearly touching the expected black-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a fitted black button down with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, the skinny jeans so common in The Book Club, accented with simple black combat boots and a parka draped over the back of his chair. Practically the uniform for a hipster in an off-the-wall nightclub.

Overall, he was… quite nice to look at, actually. Far too nice to have a well-known public face in the underworld. He would get torn apart.

Damn it. Oh well. Bond would just change his game plan a bit. He had successfully taken down enemies he was genuinely attracted to before. Seduction rarely failed him, and this one seemed to scream ‘receptive to male flirting.’ Something about the way he was sitting, perhaps. Or maybe just wishful thinking. Worth a shot though.

Bond looked back at the stage, now featuring a tiny Asian woman in a corset, then turned fully and sauntered towards the mark. He looked up at Bond as Bond drew closer, eyes flashing faintly with confusion and a tiny sliver of what looked like alarm. Reasonable enough; the mark almost certainly knew people were after him.

Bond leaned in close, watching the other man intently. “Mind if I share a table with you?”

“Not at all,” the man replied after a short hesitation, a slightly breathless tenor, all traces of panic absent. Point for Bond. This kid will never know what hit him.

With a flourish, Bond pulled out the other chair and sat, hooking an ankle over his knee. He eyed the corset woman for a moment, before leaning over the table again. He spoke lowly, forcing the man to draw in close to hear.

“Any idea what’s going on here?”

The man laughed softly. Straight teeth, ever-so-slightly stained with tea. “Frankly, I’ve got no idea. I just came down to see what all the fuss was about.”

Bond grinned and nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Alexander, you?” The name rung a faint bell in the back of Bond’s mind. He knew better than to ignore it, but he didn’t have time to suss it out just now. Something to think on later.

“Jay,” Bond responded, holding out a hand, hoping that the target wouldn’t notice his gun callouses.

Alexander grasped the hand and shook twice, surprisingly firm. His hands were slender, minimally marked. Probably not an assassin then. Dirty money, maybe?

“Pleasure to meet you, Jay.” Bond didn’t think he imagined the slight drawl Alexander placed on the word ‘pleasure.’ Kid was a bit bold. Interesting.

They fell into silence again, watching Asian corset girl finish her dramatic reading of an erotic poem. It didn’t quite make Bond cringe, but it was a near thing. A glance at Alexander revealed a similar sentiment plastered across his face. The man was ridiculously easy to read, so there was little chance he was involved in anything which required him to lie to anyone’s face. Dirty money was out. Why was he so bloody  _important_?

There was a smattering of applause as the girl bowed awkwardly around the restrictive corset, and shambled off-stage, replaced by a tall leggy redhead in a slinky black dress and sky-high heels. Bond looked her over appreciatively, before remembering that he was supposed to be trying to pick up Alexander. He glanced back hastily, but Alexander didn’t seem to have noticed, instead focused on swirling his cocktail idly with a stir straw.

“So what brings you to the London nightlife on a Thursday evening?” Bond asked, honestly curious. What were the odds he could get real info out of the man?

“Oh, this and that. Wanted to get out of the apartment, you know, it’s been, erm, quite the week.” Q glanced down and to the side, laughing nervously. This would be child’s play.

“What do you do?”

Q looked back at Bond, eyes slightly widened. He swallowed, obviously trying to hide it. “I work with computers,” he answered, voice ever so slightly shaky. A hacker, then? It fit. But first, Bond need to get him off-guard.

“Really? My sister does as well, went to Uni for four years, ended up with a cushy Fortune 500 entry position. It’s a great industry these days,” Bond rambled, coming up with backstory as he spoke.

Alexander grinned, sardonic. “That it is. What’s your field?”

Bond was prepared for that one. “I just finished Law school, working my way through a military officer track now. Sandhurst gave a 24-hour leave. Figured I’d better take advantage of every minute.” Bond smirked rakishly, unsubtly looking Alexander up and down. The man flushed a bit, eyes lighting up with interest.

“A wise decision, I’m sure. Any plans for the rest of the evening, then?” he asked.

“Not as such. Yourself?” Bond returned.

Alexander glanced down at his glass, before looking up at Bond again, a small smile in place. “No, but I could be convinced.”

Another point for Bond. The man was clearly a novice to this, absurdly trusting for someone in his position. “What say we leave the erotic poetry for the less fortunate? I’m sure we can find… other ways to occupy ourselves.”

Alexander bit the inside corner of his mouth. Bond allowed himself to stare. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there is actually a place called The Book Club. Yes, there is actually an event called Velvet Tongue. It's probably significantly different than I described, considering I've never actually attended. Check it out. http://www.wearetbc.com/whats-on/vevlet-tongue-halloween/
> 
> Constructive criticism welcome.


	3. Captivating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fair enough. I’ve given you no reason to trust me. The only thing you’ll believe is what you find for yourself. So let me ask you a question, agent.” He crouched down, leaning over Bond slightly. “Do you really know why you’re after me?”

Bond and Alexander sat through a few more acts, with varying levels of quality, as Alexander finished his drink. As they stood to leave, Bond set down a few notes to pay for his drink. (“Oh please, this is hardly a proper courtship anyway.” “Ah, but I insist.”) Alexander donned his parka and led the way up the stairs, weaving gracefully between tables and out the door, with Bond following in his wake.

The atmosphere was almost festive. The air outside was brisk, almost nippy compared to the crowded warmth of The Book Club. Chatter and laugher and golden light spilled out the doors and windows lining the street. The wind had picked up somewhat, and it wound about Alexander’s head, tossing his perfectly styled hair every which way. His skin reddened in the chill. He looked quite bedraggled, and Bond hadn’t even gotten him into the bedroom yet.

Speaking of which… “So tell me Alexander, where exactly are you taking me?”

Alexander’s head twitched in Bond’s direction, and his face softened with a sheepish smile. “Oh, how silly of me, of course you wouldn’t magically know somehow. I have a hotel room.”

Interesting. “A hotel room? I thought you said you had an apartment?” Bond poked the edges of Alexander’s story.

“Oh, I mean, yes. Obviously yes. But. Like I said before, I just had to get away for a bit. Hotels provide a bit of a vacation, wouldn’t you agree?” It was a rather blatant ploy to distract him, but Bond let Alexander believe he had fallen for it by nodding agreeably.

The walk was quiet, but not awkward. There was real tension between the two, ratcheting up and reverberating in the silence, until Bond was practically thrumming with it. By the time Alexander and Bond had arrived in front of a classy-looking Hilton, Bond was seriously considering maintaining his persona until after they’d had sex, and taking him in later. The idea had tactical merit; everyone knew that men were at their most vulnerable in the drowsy afterglow. The problem was, of course, that the disadvantage would extend to Bond as well. But Bond was far better trained, and Alexander wouldn’t be expecting it, nor did he look particularly capable of fending off Bond in any case. And at least Bond wouldn’t have to wonder what it would have been like, and Alexander would have some pleasant memories in whatever hellhole M16 stuck him in. Really, it was the least Bond could do.

The elevator ride seemed to last an eternity. Of course,  _of course_  Alexander would find himself a room on the eighth floor, not quite short enough to sprint up the stairs instead, and not quite long enough for Bond to crowd him back against a glassy elevator wall and have his way with him. When the doors slid apart, Bond and Alexander were out before they were even fully open, almost jogging down the hall, presumably towards Alexander’s room. As Alexander fumbled with the key, Bond couldn’t resist leaning up behind him, herding him close to the doorframe, pressing kisses along his jawline. Alexander shuddered, taking a single deep breath, and clutched his wallet tighter to avoid dropping it altogether. So easily flustered. Bond grinned.

Finally,  _finally,_ the door was open, and Bond and Alexander were tumbling inside. The door had hardly closed behind them before Bond was grabbing Alexander by the wrists and pinning him back against it, Alexander almost lifted off the ground with the force of Bond’s grip. The kiss grew very heated very quickly, with Alexander tensing his arms, testing Bond’s hold, and Bond’s teeth quickly finding themselves clamped on Alexander’s lower lip, perhaps a bit too hard. Alexander arched ever so slightly and made a sound in the back of his throat, not quite a whimper, but it was close enough for Bond’s purposes.

Bond took Alexander’s hands and wrapped them over his shoulders and behind his neck, then grabbed Alexander’s thighs, tucking them close around Bond’s own body, lifting Alexander off the floor. The kiss was unbroken. Alexander clung tightly to Bond, shifting impatiently at the insufficient angle.

Angling a knee under Alexander to support him, Bond released one thigh and slid his free hand under Alexander’s shirt, raking fingernails up his side. Alexander twitched away with a gasp. Ticklish? Would need to be investigated.

Alexander pulled away from Bond’s mouth for a moment, hissing lowly when Bond simply attacked his neck instead. “I’ve got- a condom, here, let me—“ he gasped, freeing one hand to reach down into the pocket of his parka while the other twisted into the hair above Bond’s ear. Bond ignored him, completely focused on the marks he was leaving along Alexander’s jugular—

Then several things happened at once. Alexander’s legs unwrapped from around Bond’s waist, the receiver was yanked out of Bond’s ear, and 60,000 volts of electricity tore through Bond’s body.

With an involuntary yell, Bond fell to the floor, convulsing helplessly. As he tried desperately to control his limbs and make sense of what had happened, something slammed against his sternum. It vibrated briefly, then thin metallic cables shot out from it, wrapping around Bond’s torso and arms, and crawling down around his legs, effectively immobilizing him within seconds. By the time Bond had recovered enough to be aware of his surroundings again, he was unable to move much more than a twitch.

Alexander stood over him, panting slightly, but his face held an unfamiliar expression of amusement. He ran his hands through his hair, adjusted his glasses, and straightened out his wrinkled shirt, before bending down and unhesitatingly removing the equipment from Bond’s jacket. Alexander turned his back to deposit the items on the desk. When he moved out of Bond’s line of sight, the radio and the gun were in several useless parts.

Fuck.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m fairly certain bondage is at least third date material,” Bond attempted, concealing his worry behind a veneer of irreverence. Alexander laughed.

“I would normally agree, but I suspect you were rather willing to take it there yourself,” he shot back, leaning against the table and indicating the handcuffs next to the dissembled radio. “And I should probably tell you, if you struggle too hard in those wires, you’ll get shocked again. I’m well-aware you’ll try it anyway, but you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Double fuck. Time to info-gather.

“Well, it’s clear your plans for me are rather dirtier than assumed,” Bond drawled, “but are we talking the fun kind or the criminal kind?”

Alexander was silent for a moment, leveling a measuring gaze at Bond. Then he spoke. “I needed to capture an agent to be a captive audience for what I have to say. The how wasn’t important. But then you made it very clear what your plan for capturing me was, so I elected to return the favor.”

Captive audience? “Wish you’d waited to enact your machinations for another 20 minutes or so,” Bond leered. Alexander smirked.

“Likewise. But men like you are dangerous, agent. I’m not sure I could’ve handled you in bed. Better not take my chances.”

Bond snorted. But no time for banter. Info gather. “I’m betting Alexander isn’t your real name, is it?”

Alexander tilted his head. “Actually, it is. I usually go by Alex.”

And with a nearly audible click, the niggling feeling of recognition from before snapped into place.  _Look, blame Alex, not me, he’s the one who decided to revamp all the sorting protocol…_

“Wait, you’re the missing intern from Q branch?”

Alexander looked taken aback, then he beamed. “Very good. I won’t ask how you put that together.”

Bond felt abruptly cold. Alexander-no,  _Alex_  was a  _traitor_. And if there was one type of person in his line of work that Bond hated, it was traitors. Suddenly, Bond was enraged at how easily he had fallen for Alex’s lies.

“You’re a bloody spy,” Bond snarled. Alex’s smile was wiped off his face instantly.

“No, I’m not, though I suppose that is what you would think. This is where the captive audience part comes in.”

Bond sneered. “And what makes you think I would listen to anything you have to say?”

Alex considered. “Fair enough. I’ve given you no reason to trust me. The only thing you’ll believe is what you find for yourself. So, let me ask you a question, agent.” He crouched down, leaning over Bond slightly.  “Do you really know why you’re after me?”

Bond paused, and didn’t answer. He didn’t know, truthfully. He didn’t know anything, and it grated against his instincts.

Alex watched him for a moment longer, then leaned back on his heels, sighing. “But that we had met under better circumstances. I think we could’ve had fun together.” He smiled wryly, running a hand over his eyes.

Bond laughed vindictively. “Not bloody likely. I never would have looked at you twice if you hadn’t been my target.” A lie, but Alex didn’t need to know that.

Alex went very still, just for a second, before his hand fell away from his face, revealing a smooth mask. There was a hint of hurt about the eyes, and Bond viciously clamped down on his faint sense of guilt. The man was a traitor, he didn’t deserve kindness.  _But was he a traitor, really?_

Alex straightened, rising to his feet again. “You’re a remarkable actor then. But be as it may, I’ve done my part. If you want answers, and I suspect you do, you’ll find them yourself.” He turned away, going to a laptop on the couch Bond hadn’t noticed and tapping at the keyboard, almost too fast to distinguish one click from the next. His back was turned, his attention was occupied. Perfect timing.

Bond wrenched savagely at his bindings. He promptly received another unpleasant electric shock. Alex didn’t even glance back.

As Bond lay there, panting and juddering from his latest round of electrotherapy, Alex flitted about, collecting electronic equipment and the other various odds and ends that always ended up scattered around a hotel room. As he stuffed them all untidily into a backpack, he glanced at Bond again.

“I expect your backup will be here shortly, I’m sure you’ve found a way to let them know about your predicament without the radio, so I’ll be on my way. I don’t expect we’ll be meeting again.” The thought left Bond feeling strangely regretful.

Alex continued, pulling a cloth and a bottle of clear liquid from his backpack. “I do hope I’ve at least raised some intriguing questions for you.” He crouched down by Bond again.

“This is just chloroform, there will be no damage from anything I do with this,” he said smoothly, pouring a carefully measured amount of liquid onto the cloth. “You’ll simply go to sleep, and when you wake up, you’ll be unbound, with a mild headache, and I’ll be gone.”

Without further ado, Alex pressed the cloth firmly over Bond’s mouth and nose. Bond futilely tried to hold his breath, but it was no use. He wasn’t going to able to escape this.

As Bond finally succumbed and took a breath, he heard Alex say, “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Bond.”

Bond’s last thought before everything went black was ‘ _How does he know my name?’_

Alex was true to his word. When Bond woke, several minutes later, he was surrounded by medical personnel from M16. He had a headache. The device restraining him was gone, along with all of Bond’s equipment. And Alex was nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism welcome.


	4. In Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was exhausting. Alex had been in hiding before, but never from anyone who knew his face, and never from an entity as powerful as the British secret service.

                As Bond stilled under Alex’s hand, Alex was already moving. He threw the bottle back into the open mouth of the backpack, sealing the cloth in a ziplock and tossing it in after. Alex stepped around Bond’s prone form to glance at his computer. He scanned over his code one last time, making only a few quick changes, then pressed enter with finality. A countdown for five minutes appeared on his screen.

                Show time.

                Hands perfectly steady in the stress, Alex slammed the laptop shut and slotted it into its special pocket in his backpack. He knelt over Bond and pressed the concealed quick-release on the side of the shock restraint, and didn’t even wait for it to reel its arms all the way in before shoving it back into the pocket of his parka. He ran over his mental checklist as he slung his pack over his shoulder. Collect equipment: check. Wipe down for traces: check, he had done that before he left to try and lure out an agent. Reroute cameras and lifts, put a video loop into the hotel security feeds, jam the doors on his floor: check, check, and check. Satisfied, Alex turned the door handle with his sleeve and stepped casually into the hall.

                He didn’t look back at Bond. There was no time.

                Looking like any other hotel patron, Alex walked calmly down the hall towards the lifts. He pressed the button with an elbow; the lift arrived almost immediately, since it was ignoring requests from all the other floors. It was gratifyingly empty.

                Only minutes ago, he had been in here with Bond, afraid to look him in the eye for fear of losing control— no. There would be time to think on that later.

                The lift glided evenly to the basement level. The doors opened, and Alex leaned out slightly, glancing around. Only a few people were down here, all of them otherwise occupied. And besides, a hotel this size would have a large enough staff that an unfamiliar face in day clothing shouldn’t be worth mentioning.

                Alex walked confidently through the concrete and whitewashed corridors to the laundry room, remembering the way perfectly from his earlier perusal of the blueprints. As he had hoped, there were a couple drying machines full of freshly washed maintenance uniforms. Alex riffled through the simple monochrome garments until he found a men’s uniform small enough to fit him. He draped them over one arm and cast about the other machines for a few extra shirts and a fresh pair of socks, just in case. Once they were safely stowed in his backpack, which by now was growing rather full, Alex ducked behind a row of washing machines and changed quickly, peeking up at the security camera in the corner to confirm what he already knew. True to form, it was firmly pointed upwards, like the rest of the cameras throughout the building and down a few randomly chosen streets outside.

                The uniform, grey slacks and a simple white shirt with a logo, fit adequately. As an afterthought, Alex grabbed a large, thick jacket to wrap his backpack in so he could carry it in his arms. It was cold enough outside for the jacket to be appropriate, and it wouldn’t do for someone to recognize Alex because of his unfortunately memorable pack. Better to blend.

                Alex glanced at his watch. Four minutes had passed since he pressed enter on the laptop. If M16 hadn’t been aware of the situation before, they certainly were now, now that a non-trivial number of street cameras were mysteriously aimed at the sky. It wasn’t exactly subtle, but it got the job done, and it was mostly a diversionary tactic anyway. Alex didn’t plan on sticking to the streets. Nevertheless, four minutes was plenty of time for the government tech workers to begin fixing Alex’s calibrations, plenty of time for backup to begin moving in and securing the exits. Alex had to be out of here, right now.

                He set a brisk pace towards a service exit in the northern corner of the basement, pushing the heavy door open and squinting at the wind in his face. He had exited into a dark stairwell with metal steps leading up to ground level. Not a strategically good position for Alex. Anyone could be waiting up there. But it was too late now to pick a different escape route.

                Alex affected a slight roll in his gait, a slight twist in his shoulders, and pulled out his phone to provide an excuse. He walked up the stairs, seeming absentminded, keeping his body relaxed and carefully concealing his wariness. Nothing was more suspicious than a man who looked anxious at the sight of law enforcement.

                He deliberately bumped up against someone when he got to the sidewalk. It would attract attention, and most people on the run would do anything to avoid that. It would simultaneously bring him into focus and erase suspicion.

                “Oh, pardon,” Alex said off-handedly, not even looking up from his phone, where he had an innocuous texting engine pulled up, thumbs typing nonsense at blinding speeds. The man he had rammed with his shoulder made a loud noise of derision, but thankfully didn’t pursue Alex any further. Alex eased slightly. He wasn’t looking to start a fight with a random thug on the street; he was in plenty of danger as matters stood.

                Out of the corner of his eye, Alex scanned up and down the avenue. Sure enough, there were a couple ambulances shrieking down the street towards the hotel, flanked in front and back by shiny black sedans with dark tinted windows. Alex resolutely didn’t stiffen, and the fleet passed him by without incident. He was in the clear for the moment.

                Alex merged with the horde of pedestrians streaming down the stairs into the tube station. It was a bit of a rush hour, as all the night shift workers began their commutes, and the better-off segment of the population returned home from dining out. It was certainly a large enough crowd for Alex to lose himself in. Just another wage-slave in uniform.

                He swiped his spare tube card, edging through the turnstile and following the flow of people, eventually ending up pressed up against a large lady and her large purse in a packed train car. The forced physical contact made him wince, and he resisted the impulse to squirm. He sighed.

                “Hey, luv, you mind not breathing on me? I don’t want your germs, mate.”

                “Sorry, sorry.” Alex tilted his head up, but his stature didn’t even allow him to get his face above her neck, and he ended up with his nose nearly buried in the crook of her shoulder.

                Oh God, public transportation.

                It was two tedious, cramped hours in the tube before Alex felt secure enough to actually start heading towards one of his safe houses. He switched cars, changed levels, and went through every line on the map of the London underground. He followed crowds where he could, and remained unobtrusive where he couldn’t. He took his jacket on and off, wore his hood up and down, in an attempt to throw anyone trying to track him live via camera. It was exhausting.  Alex had been in hiding before, but never from anyone who knew his face, and never from an entity as powerful as the British secret service.

                He emerged onto the street about three blocks from his building. The temperature was positively cold now, and Alex was suddenly grateful he had thought to appropriate a heavy jacket from the hotel. Alex looked around warily; completely aside from the dangers of M16 agents, this part of town wasn’t the safest place to be at nearly 11 at night. But it was out of the way, and cheap, and the neighbors didn’t ask questions about the strange young man with the weaponized apartment which he never stayed in.

                A short walk later, Alex was pressing his thumb against the keyhole of his door. The handle, an unassuming generic-looking affair, subtly scanned his fingerprint, humming inaudibly under his hand as it evaluated the pattern. A second later, the door clicked open, revealing a darkened interior, and Alex was in, closing the door behind him.

                Safe.

                A soft androgynous voice emitted from somewhere above the door. “Please state your name.”

                “Alexander Wolfe.”

                “Welcome, Alex,” the voice greeted smoothly, as lights came on in the space, revealing a small studio apartment, unfurnished but for a twin bed, a chest of drawers, and a desk in the corner with several monitors set up on it. Most of what made this apartment special was hidden within the plaster walls, invisible to the casual onlooker.

                Alex shucked off his backpack, placing it on the floor gently, ever mindful of his valuable equipment. He crossed the room to the desk, carefully unloading his shock restraint, his wallet, his control panel smart phone, and two wickedly sharp knives from under the back of his belt and along his inner left bicep. He slid his parka off and hung it on a hook by the front door, then wandered over to the kitchenette to start up the tea kettle. He hadn’t had caffeine in far too long.

                As he waited for the water to boil, Alex hauled himself into the bathroom. He examined himself in the mirror. He looked a mess. His already unruly hair was even more so than usual, blown into tangles by the wind. There were slight shadows under his eyes from the unrelenting stress of the past 24 hours. The bruises on his neck from the rather intense encounter a few hours before were just beginning to darken. He ran his fingers over them lightly, wondering what Bond had been thinking when he made them. Oral fixation? Possessive tendencies? Or did he just like to leave his lovers something to remember him by?

                With a long exhale, Alex pressed against the marks a little more firmly. He would certainly remember Bond; how could he not? Not that it made a difference, as Alex was highly unlikely to ever have be in a situation like that with him again. Alex wasn’t thick enough to believe the agent when he implied that he wasn’t truly attracted to Alex. It was nearly impossible to fake the heat Alex had seen in Bond’s expression. But Bond most likely wouldn’t pursue him again, not after Alex’s little stunt, and that was all that really mattered in the end.

                Besides, Alex had already achieved exactly what he had intended: lure an agent to him, capture said agent, and give the agent some reason to go looking for answers. Hopefully that would lead to the agent unearthing the same worrying trends Alex had. Alex knew he couldn’t let himself be the only one who knew something was wrong in M16. If something happened to him, the knowledge would be lost. Other people had to be informed, people with power to act, and preferably without the darker side of M16 suspecting. Distressingly attractive double-ohs were never supposed to be part of the equation.

                A high pitched whistling drew him from his thoughts. With a last long breath, Alex turned on the faucet to the coldest setting and splashed it over his face, drying off with a hand towel, then moving back into the kitchenette. He took the kettle off the stove, snagging a chipped mug from the dusty cupboard over the sink and pouring steaming water over a bag of Earl Grey. He didn’t add milk or sugar; Alex had always been more of a black tea person. And he would need as high a concentration of caffeine as he could get. He had a long night ahead of him still.

                “Sentry, projector one, power on, display all security feeds, end.”

                At his command, a tiny projector embedded in the ceiling flicked on, beaming 16 camera views onto a blank white wall Alex had painted specifically for that purpose. He looked them over. Everything looked peaceful on the street outside, the only people in sight a couple of older men smoking under a cracked light post. Alex furrowed his brow. Better safe than sorry.

                “Sentry, security feed 3, run facial recognition, all subjects, projector one, display results, end.”

                Before Alex had time to wait, two names and the corresponding profiles appeared on the projector. As he read, Alex’s expression cleared. The men outside were harmless, just two cigarette addicts who’ve been living on this street the entirety of their adult lives.

                Alex turned away from the display, settling himself in the rolling chair by his desk. He typed a few lines of code into his sentry program, ensuring that any unexpected visitors who weren’t on the whitelist would find themselves peppered with fast-acting tranquilizer bullets from the guns hidden behind panels in the walls. It shouldn’t come to that; Alex had always been remarkably good at eliminating his location from his electronic signature. All that remained was to plant his face in various photo and video recordings throughout London to throw searchers off the track. 12 sightings in randomly picked areas of the city, 4 sightings in the train station, 3 sightings in the tube, and maybe even a couple sightings at the international airport. Alex smirked to himself. That should throw them into a frenzy.

                Alex took a long draught of his tea, ignoring the burn of too-hot water on his tongue, and began to type.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex POV, basically just an exposition on his situation. Somewhat slower paced than the last few chapters, but lots of information about the other half of our main duo.
> 
> In case it was unclear, Alex is Q. Since this fic takes place before his promotion, he doesn't have the Q title right now.


	5. Assassins Assassins Assassins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was going to try to convince me he wasn’t a spy, but then he decided I wouldn’t believe anything he said and encouraged me to investigate for myself.”
> 
> M rubbed a fingernail thoughtfully. “Yes, actually, I believe that is wise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, so I suck at updating. Here's a crappy unbeta'd chapter, meant solely to assure readers that this fic isn't abandoned. Also, I edited and revised the older chapters, so if something doesn't make sense, that may be why. Constructive criticism welcome, as always.

                The minute Bond stepped into M16 HQ, he received a summons from M2. He nodded civilly at the messenger, a chipper brunette, and then completely ignored her in favor of going straight to M. Tanner took one glance at Bond and let him through into M’s office with a long-suffering sigh.

                The office was quite familiar to Bond, given how often he was called in either for reprimand or for commendation. M herself was perfectly calm, as per usual, and she seemed to be expecting him. Though, she would seem so whether she actually was or not.

                Bond took a firm standing position in front of her desk. “Mind filling me in on the new Q branch intern by the name of Alexander?”

                M looked at Bond for a moment, gathering her thoughts, before speaking. “I take it you were sent in uninformed.” At Bond’s nod of confirmation, she continued. “M2 tells me the mark was caught selling secrets to the Russian embassy, but he ran before he could be apprehended.”

                Bond waited. M watched him candidly, then took a long breath through her nose, resigned.

                “No, I don’t know if that’s the whole story, or even true. Alexander’s background makes it seem likely, but I wouldn’t have allowed him into the organization if I hadn’t been certain of his good behavior.”

                “His background?” Bond forced himself to sit in the visitor chair, a silent apology for barging in uninvited.

                “Alexander has been involved in international black hat hacking since before he was old enough to finish secondary. He is nigh-unparalleled in his field, and I offered him sanctuary in return for working with us.”

                “So he turned against us.”

                “It would seem so, but I’m not certain. Alexander may be notoriously unscrupulous in selling secrets to the highest bidder, but never once has he endangered his home country, which was why I was willing to bring him into the fold in the first place.”

                Bond eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. “What other explanation do you propose, then?”

                M gazed at Bond frankly, folding her hands in front of her. “It is possible someone is trying to get him out of the way. With the kind of work Alexander does, he may have come across something he wasn’t meant to. There have been a few other minor incongruities in the past month or two that could indicate a mole, but nothing that clearly pointed towards treason. Alexander defecting seems far more likely.”

                “Why didn’t you authorize a live capture for questioning?”

                M narrowed her eyes. “If I had been the one to authorize the mission, I would have. But M2 signed off on this one, and he thought it best to ensure Alexander didn’t have time to trade any more state secrets. Now,” M sat up a bit straighter, moving from obliging to demanding. “I believe I’m quite through justifying myself to impertinent agents. Debrief, 007, if you would.”

                Bond nodded, smoothing over his veneer of professionalism. “The target was spotted in the basement of a nightclub in Shoreditch around 7:30. I elected for seduction, as he was clearly receptive, and he took me back to his hotel room. He produced some sort of taser restraining device, I was caught off-guard, and I was unable to escape. I was drugged into unconsciousness, and the rest you know.”

                M raised an astute eyebrow. “And how did you manage to get caught off-guard in the first place?”

                Bond gritted his teeth. “He appeared non-threatening. I underestimated him.”

                M’s lips twitched upwards. “Yes, he does tend to have that effect on people. Did he give any motivation for his actions?”

                “In a way, yes. While I was immobilized, he mentioned something about a captive audience. He was going to try to convince me he wasn’t a spy, but then he decided I wouldn’t believe anything he said and encouraged me to investigate for myself.”

                M rubbed a fingernail thoughtfully. “Yes, actually, I believe that is wise.” She stared at Bond for a moment, before lifting her chin marginally. “Your new mission is to procure intel on the Alexander situation. If there is a mole in M16, we need to know about it. You will be discrete about the objective for obvious reasons. If you can track Alexander down, by all means bring him in, but he will have made himself very difficult to find.”

                Bond stood and nodded politely, then exited the office, ignoring the steely look from Tanner on his way out.

*

                Bond couldn’t ignore M2’s summons forever, but he waltzed down to the office casually, after a leisurely post-assignment shower. He next found himself seated in an uncomfortable wooden chair before an increasingly irate second-in-command. Normally, Bond would be feeling more chagrined over his failure to complete the mission, but in this case, he found it perfectly reasonable, considering the unforgivable shortage of information he’d had to go on. He never would have been caught so unaware had someone simply warned him about Alexander’s skill set.

                M2 evidently didn’t agree.

                “Tell me again, agent, how you managed to be physically overcome by a man half your size?”

                “I was unprepared to deal with someone with his capabilities. Sir,” Bond responded flatly, irked at how long this spiteful interrogation was dragging on. Admittedly, it also rubbed him the wrong way to be forced to admit his failure over, and over, and over again. It was true; Bond had never expected someone so slight in stature to be able to disable him so quickly without some sort of deadly weapon. Bond had visually checked the man over for concealed firearms, but he hadn’t exactly been looking for a bloody octopus taser.

                M2 sighed gustily and rubbed at his temple. “The target has doubtlessly gone to ground by now, since you so kindly alerted him that he was being pursued.” Bond refrained from pointing out that Alexander had clearly known that already. “It will be nearly impossible to find him again. He was quite difficult to find as it were--”

                Bond just sat stiffly and allowed M2’s recriminations to wash over him like so much sea water. There would be no escaping the tongue-lashing until his superior was quite finished. Bond thought over his new, secret mission; he had never had to do recon on his own agency before. But a mole in M16 could be singularly threatening, especially one with the power this one seemed to have, eliminating risks such as Alexander before they compromised the mole’s security. Bond still thought it was eminently more likely that the hacker had simply returned to his old ways, but he couldn’t afford to ignore the alternative. He idly wondered if it was possible that M2 was the mole, but discarded the idea as implausible almost immediately; M would never allow a traitor so close to her. The background checks on M2 must be unbelievably thorough.

                Speaking of which, M2 seemed to be winding down. He was developing that tired look about his forehead that meant he would sooner never set eyes on 007 again than manage another moment of his presence.

                “If we do manage to locate the mark again, I’ll be sending you out to neutralize him. I trust you won’t allow yourself to be distracted by your flirtations again.” M2’s lip curled with derision, and Bond restrained the prickly irritation sparking down his spine. He soothed himself with the knowledge that ultimately, he answered to M. “Dismissed.”

                Bond stood and left without a word or a backwards glance.

*

                He didn’t bother going to his flat, with its naked, whitewashed walls and empty bookshelves. Instead, Bond went straight to Alec’s. He didn’t have to call ahead; the lock was easy enough to pick.

                Alec looked up from his Netflix account as Bond opened the door and snorted. “Looking grim today, Princess. Someone piss in your scotch?” Bond ignored him and slumped down on the far side of the couch with an explosive exhalation. Alec looked over him, checking for major injuries, finding none, and continued. “So how’d the job go?”

                Bond grunted. “Bloody awful. Little swot knew who I was.”

                Alec laughed outright. “Got the better of you, did he?” Bond didn’t deign to reply, heaving himself off the couch and into the kitchen. He browsed through Alec’s extensive liquor selection; unearthing a decently aged whiskey, he looked around the cupboards for a suitable glass, listening absently to the inane sitcom on the telly.

                He went back to the couch, sitting down heavily, legs splayed, staring into his glass. Alec, ever discerning, muted the sitcom and waited for Bond to speak.

                “The target used to work for M16. M says it’s possible he was framed by a mole.”

                Alec promptly sat up straighter, intent. “Why does she think that?”

                “I don’t know details. M seems to trust him, and she mentioned a few other small inconsistencies, I presume with bookkeeping or mission details.” Bond scratched tiredly at his jaw.

                Alec narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Did you get any intel from the mark?”

                “He said he wasn’t a spy, and he told me to figure out the real story for myself,” Bond replied dryly.

                Alec grinned. “I like this guy, spy or not. Are you going to try to find him again?”

                “M’s orders.”

                Alec rolled his eyes. “As if you wouldn’t otherwise.” Bond pretended not to hear.

*

                Bond’s eyes snapped open suddenly. The lights in the living room were off, and the telly was silenced, an infomercial flashing dimly across the screen. Alec was nowhere to be found, likely in someone else’s bed for the night. Bond’s left shoulder was stiff from the awkward way it was pressed into the armrest, but he stayed still, keeping his breathing deep and even, alert for what woke him.

                An unusual breeze from an open window. Soft footsteps in the hallway, heavier than Alec’s tread. 

                Bond melted off the couch to the ground without a sound. He had checked his service Walther in at M16, but he was never without his back-up Glock. Silently, he reached behind and pulled it from his waistband, thumbing the safety off with a nearly inaudible click.

                The footsteps paused. The apartment was silent.

                Then there was a muffled thud from a silenced gun, and a bullet tore through the back of the couch, where Bond had been sitting moments before.

                Bond threw the thick wooden coffee table over for cover with a loud crash and vaulted to the other side. The intruder knew he was here, there was no need for stealth now. More stifled bangs, and the table jerked as the shots embedded themselves deep into the surface. Bond swiftly judged the position of the gunman, darted his arm around the side of the table, and fired off a shot, unsilenced, deafening in the enclosed space. Bond adjusted rapidly, braced for the noise, and listened for any sign he had taken out his attacker. Sure enough, he could hear ragged breathing coming from the hall. Hit, but probably not out of commission. Not safe to approach just yet.

                Bond ran at a crouch to the wall between the living room and the kitchen. Out of range from the hallway, and he would see instantly if the intruder left his cover. He took the moment to reload his gun, ejecting the magazine with rehearsed ease. He heard the hit man struggle to regain his footing. Probably shot in the leg then, but likely not an artery, or he’d be dead by now.

                Bond stepped soundlessly along the wall towards the hall, edging up to the corner, keeping diligent note of the location of the enemy. But then the man moved. He whipped his gun around the corner and pulled the trigger before Bond had time to move back. It was point-blank range, but blind, and the bullet only grazed his arm. The wound was a fiery stripe of pain across Bond’s bicep, but it wasn’t life threatening. He fell back, retreating to the threshold between living room and kitchen.

                There was the click of an empty magazine and a low curse from the attacker. Then, retreating footsteps, a crash of glass, and silence. Bond’s mind raced for a split second, before he leapt up and sprinted towards the back bedroom. The window had a jagged hole in it, from where the assassin had jumped through. Bond pressed himself up against the windowsill, and raked his stare up and down the street.

                There, a dark shape running unevenly towards a waiting van.

                “Fuck,” Bond spat, whipping away from the window and tearing down the hall, out the front door of the flat. He vaulted down the stairs, ignoring the sting of his arm, and slammed up behind the door jamb at the front of the building for a quick surroundings scan, before bursting outside.

                But the van was gone. There weren’t even headlights in the distance.

                Bond stared at the spot where it had been, breathing unevenly, wired with adrenaline. Then, silently, he went back inside to gather his things and disappear.


End file.
